short and sweet
by what a lovely way to burn
Summary: — drabble collection, aka where my plot bunnies go to die.
1. chapter one

**short and sweet: chapter one**

•

 _escape, eleven, waldru, envelope_

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At age ten, Walburga Black is more than ready to go to Hogwarts, if only to get away from her younger brothers. Alphard isn't so bad, but Cygnus is a complete nuisance.

But there is the worry of being Sorted into a different House than Slytherin. Her mother, when consulted about this, had sent her away with a cold sneer and the words that ring in Walburga's head for years to come: _"For both of our sakes, you won't_ _tarnish the family's reputation."_

Family. Is that what they are?

Or are they simply a mismatched puzzle that will never fit together as a whole?

•

Walburga pushes the horror of letting her parents down out of her head and takes to spending her time watching the skies for any owls that seemed to be heading their way. Her mother refuses to tell her when her letter will arrive, so Walburga must content herself with waiting.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

She can almost hear the time passing, can feel the breeze as it swoops by and takes the lead of her life.

And then she spots the owl.

•

It's not that big of a deal, to be honest. A new setting is nothing to a Pureblood; they are raised to adapt in social situations.

But still she worries.

Will she be liked? Will she fit in? Will she do well in her classes?

She voices these questions to her father, having learned by now to not ask her mother. He twirls his ever-present glass of Firewhiskey between his long fingers and says gravely, "Blacks are not meant to be liked. We are meant to stand out."

Which doesn't ease her nerves at all, but before she can say anything else, her father turns away and faces the crackling fire, leaving Walburga to slip out of his study with more questions than she'd entered with.

•

Her brothers are getting on her last nerve when the five of them arrive at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. They're Purebloods, so they are allowed to Apparate directly, which Walburga supposes is nice — they would not have fit in outside the barrier, in the Muggle world.

She boards the train, her mother's detached voice in her ear. _Do not let us down_. Her cheek is burning from the swift press of Irma's cold lips to her skin, and she fights the urge to find the nearest bathroom and wash her face.

She finds a compartment near the back of the train. It's empty but for one girl, dressed in such expensive robes she must be a Pureblood.

"May I sit here?" Walburga inquires, just to be polite. There is truly nothing the girl can say or do to stop her, after all.

"No one said you couldn't," the girl replies, looking up. Her eyes are a deep cerulean colour, and her hair is blonde and twisted into a bun with a few curls loose around her round face. She has dimples in both cheeks, visible even without smiling, and Walburga is struck by her beauty.

"I'm Walburga," she says, sticking her hand out. It's not dignified in the least, but she's free for nine months and doesn't give a damn.

The blonde girl eyes the proffered appendage suspiciously before extending her own. "Druella."

They shake hands.


	2. chapter two

**short and sweet: chapter two**

•

 ** _author's notes:_** _cheers to another wonderful year of harry potter and the brilliant mind behind him._ _happy belated birthday to the both of them_.

* * *

July thirty-first has never been a particularly good day for Harry Potter. This morning, his birthday, he wakes early and just lays in bed, watching the sun rise and the clouds bloom with colour.

In the beds surrounding him, Seamus, Dean, Ron, and Neville snore soundly. Harry sits up when it becomes clear that no more sleep is to be had, reaches for his glasses, and knocks them off the bedside table. With a quiet oath, he scrambles out of bed and searches on his hands and knees along the carpet.

"Harry?"

Neville's timid voice still startles Harry, and the black-haired wizard jumps to his feet, wand previously underneath his pillow but now gripped tightly in his hand.

Neville holds up his hands, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Nice reflexes," he complimented. "What are you looking for?"

"My glasses," Harry mutters, dropping to the floor again. "I can't —"

"Are you a wizard or not?" Neville raises his wand and says, " _Accio_ _Harry's glasses_!"

Harry flushes crimson as his glasses soar from beneath his bed into Neville's hand, who passes them to Harry. "Er, sorry, sometimes I forget."

Neville nods. "Me too."

They stand in silence for a few seconds before Neville's eyes light up. "Oh! It's your birthday, so I got you something." He fishes a small parcel out of his pajama pocket, taps it with his wand to restore it to its usual size, and hands it over before turning and climbing back into bed and shutting the curtains.

Harry stares down at the package, wrapped messily in brown paper and tied with coarse brown string. Then he sits back down on his bed and carefully pulls the paper away.

His breath catches and a lump appears in his throat. It's a collage in a frame. There's a picture of who could only be his mother, wearing her Hogwarts uniform and a Head Girl badge; there's a picture of Lily and James at their wedding; there's the entire Order, his parents in the foreground, beaming at the camera and waving enthusiastically, their faces still gentle and not yet hardened from war; there's a picture of — was that _Sirius_ kissing _McGonagall_? — there was Lily and three other girls.

There were still more pictures, but Harry can feel his nose tingling, so he covers the collage with the paper and places it reverently under his pillow. 'Thanks' isn't enough to say for the thoughtful gift Neville had given him, but it's the best he thinks he can manage.

Maybe he'll wait for a few minutes, just to let his nose calm down and his eyes stop watering.


	3. chapter three

**short and sweet: chapter three**

* * *

Six-year-old Draco Malfoy wakes up in a cold sweat, with tears drying on his face. This is the third time he's had this particular nightmare in as many nights.

He's too shaken by what he dreamt that he doesn't even realise he's slipped out of bed and is padding down the stairs to his father's bedroom. His father and mother are "taking a break" — whatever that means — so they aren't sleeping together in the master suite.

Draco never goes to his father after a scary dream. Lucius Malfoy has never laid a hand on his son in rage, but Draco is constantly looking over his shoulder to avoid his father's anger, because his father is scarier even than his worst night terrors.

It's barely one in the morning, and as Draco approaches the end of the hall, he can see light shining from beneath the large wood door. He knocks softly, then opens the door and enters cautiously.

He's never been in this room before. He has been warned by his mother to never snoop in his father's things, and he took that very seriously.

"Draco?" Lucius is sitting at the desk in the corner of the room. He's wearing nothing but green silk sleeping pants and his usually perfect hair is rumpled as if he's been running his hands through it. He stands quickly. "Draco, what is it?"

Draco looks down, embarrassed that he came to this strict man because he'd had a nightmare, and doesn't answer.

Lucius sighs and purses his lips, but surprisingly doesn't lose his temper. "Come," he says, sitting on his bed and patting the space beside him. "Sit."

Crossing the room to the giant bed, Draco eyes the tall mattress warily, not wanting to attempt climbing up there and making a fool of himself. Seconds later, Lucius scoops him up and deposits him on the bed. "Now. What's the matter?" He peers at his son, picks up his wand, and casts a spell on Draco's face to clean the dried tear tracks.

"I had a —" Draco hiccups "— nightmare. The same one I had last night and last last night."

"The night before last," corrects Lucius, not unkindly. "What was your nightmare about?"

Draco plucks at the duvet before saying, "You and Mother dead, and me being the one who did it."

Lucius' eyes soften and he uncharacteristically embraces Draco — stiffly, but physical contact was not a regular occurence. "You would never kill your mother or I," he reassures his son. Draco's grey eyes are the same colour as his own, he suddenly realises. How had he not noticed before?

"But how do you know?"

"I just do. Now go back to bed. It's late, and your mother will have my head if she learns you were awake at this time."

"Can you —" Draco falters, "could you maybe tuck me in?"

Lucius slides off the bed and swings his son down, setting him on his feet. "I'll see what I can do."


	4. chapter four

_**author's notes:**_ _written for hogwarts (challenges and assignments). prompt(s) will be at the bottom_.

* * *

 **short and sweet: chapter four**

•

 **worthless**

* * *

Hermione used to like him. When she first arrived at Hogwarts, she thought he was devastatingly handsome. He had a polished look so unlike the other boys, and he was smart. She tried her best to maintain her good grades in hopes that maybe one day he would seek her out and congratulate her on passing a test and ask her to tutor him. _He_ would end up tutoring _her_ , if in a different subject than the one on which they had originally started out.

That was before second year. Before the names he threw her way.

Frizzy-haired, buck-toothed know-it-all.

Worthless.

Disgusting.

Mudblood.

She understood the first one. She'd heard it enough from the kids at her former schools. It took a while to realise why everyone thought "Mudblood" was the worst insult to ever call someone.

When she finally did learn what it meant, she was furious. How dare he assume he was better than her just because he had been born with magic? He may have been born a rich, spoilt brat, but that gave him no right to condescend to her when he was behind her in every class except Potions.

•

"Mudblood" became the go-to insult. Hermione would have much preferred he tease her about her appearance — at least then she knew he was telling the truth. But to be called a degrading name about her blood status and her Muggle parentage, which she couldn't change even if she wanted to, was humiliating and infuriating.

She could change her looks, change almost everything about her.

But not that.

•

As she lay on the floor of Malfoy Manor beneath a crazed-looking Bellatrix Lestrange, Hermione began to believe it. As Bellatrix whispered in her ear, her hot, foul breath washing over her neck and face, Hermione began to give up hope.

She was expendable. She was a Mudblood.

She was worthless.

* * *

 _word count: 315_

* * *

 **prompts**

advent calendar: day three — emotions — worthless


	5. chapter five

_**author's notes:** written for hogwarts (challenges and assignments). prompt(s) will be at the bottom_.

* * *

 **short and sweet: chapter five**

•

 **happily ever after**

* * *

Lucius sat down with a sigh, holding a glass of Firewhiskey in his hand. Paintings of Malfoy ancestors adorned the walls of his study, but most were asleep as it was nearing midnight.

Tomorrow was Draco's Hogwarts graduation. Tomorrow, his son was coming home for good.

Lucius couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. He was, after all, the parent who had constantly pushed Draco to do better than his best. He was the villain in what should have been _Draco's_ fairytale.

Sighing, he tossed back the Firewhiskey and stood. Draco had a big day tomorrow, and Lucius was determined to not miss it.

•

"Hurry, Lucius," Narcissa urged. "We don't want to be late."

Lucius fumbled with his tie. His fingers were oddly numb and his stomach was filled with tiny butterflies, the like of which he had never felt before. He hadn't seen his son since September, when Draco boarded the Hogwarts Express for the eighth and final time.

Narcissa shook her head and waved her wand. The tie wrapped itself around Lucius' neck and tied itself with a flourish.

"Let's go."

•

They arrived with a sharp crack on Hogwarts lawn. A stage had been set up near the Great Lake and hundreds of chairs were lined up in front of it. "Let's find a good seat," said Narcissa, tugging on her husband's arm.

"Over there?" Lucius suggested, pointing to a row just a few back from the stage.

"Perfect." They made their way over, ignoring the calls from the reporters.

 _"Lord Malfoy! Over here!"_

 _"Madam Malfoy, are you proud of your son for graduating even though he was_ _—"_

Narcissa whipped around. Her wand was pointed straight at the reporter's face — Lucius thought her name was Rita Skeeter — before the woman could even blink. "Finish that sentence," she said in a dangerous voice. "I dare you."

"Well," Skeeter said cheerfully, looking quite pleased with herself, "I was just wondering how you felt about young Mister Malfoy graduating from Hogwarts despite you pushing him to join the Dark Lord and forgo his education."

Narcissa let out a growl and raised her wand to cast at Skeeter what Lucius had no doubt was a nasty hex. He caught her wrist. "Cissa, please," he said in a low voice so no one could overhear. "We didn't come to make trouble; we came to celebrate our son's graduation. Put down your wand and be the better person. Don't stoop to her level."

His words seemed to penetrate the red cloud of anger and Narcissa straightened, lowering her wand arm slowly. "No comment," she said before breezing past the insolent reporter.

•

The ceremony was lovely. Each graduating student was called up and handed a diploma before being embraced by Minerva and sent back to their seats. Narcissa was openly sobbing into her monogrammed handkerchief, and even Lucius sniffed slightly with pride as Draco mounted the stage.

His son.

 _Their_ son.

Draco was valedictorian. His speech wasn't long, but it spoke of learning and forgiveness and enemies-turned-friends.

When he came down the steps, he didn't sit back down at his seat in the front row. His eyes had been roving while he spoke, searching for a flash of sunlight on hair identical to his own. Instead, he went a few more rows and sat down on the empty seat between his parents. His mother was crying and — was that a _tear_ glistening in his father's eye?

He wrapped an arm around each of them, and leaned his head against Lucius' shoulder.

It was a family moment that was new to all of them.

It was their first happily ever after.

* * *

 _word count: 752 (including bonus scene)_

* * *

 **prompts** **:**

advent calendar: day nine — platonic pairings — lucius/draco

* * *

 **bonus scene:**

"I'm glad to see you were awarded the honour of valedictorian, Draco," Lucius told his son afterward as they milled around with cups of lemonade in their hands. "You deserved the position, and I am very proud that you finally beat Granger."

"Oh, I'm not," Draco said. "Hermione was _very_ upset that all her hard work had gone to waste. It took quite a lot of snogging to calm her down."

"Sno — Draco Lucius Malfoy, you mean to say you're dating Granger and you didn't _tell_ me?" Narcissa was outraged. "I thought I raised you better than this!"

She took Draco by the arm and dragged him off in search of his girlfriend.

Lucius just chuckled to himself and downed the rest of his lemonade. He did _not_ envy his son right now.


	6. chapter six

**short and sweet: chapter six**

 **•**

 **quite an adventure**

* * *

It started on a Saturday afternoon. Six year old Hermione Jean Granger was curled up in her parents' waiting room re-reading her favourite book of all time, _Matilda_. Her father had read it to her so many times the cover fell off, and her mother had had to sew it back on.

Both her parents were with a patient, and although Hermione was usually quite well-entertained by _Matilda_ , today she felt too energetic to read any more. A glance at the stack of books beside her had her scrunching her nose. The waiting room was empty, and the only noise was the clock ticking and Hermione's breathing.

Across the room stood a cherry wood bookcase that Emma Granger prized. It was filled with typical waiting room magazines, as well as more substantial reading, and the bottom few shelves contained some of Hermione's old books.

Hermione tilted her head. Since there was no one else around, maybe she could see if the books would move for her again. The first time her father had read _Matilda_ to her, she'd stayed up all night staring hard at objects in an attempt to get them to move the way Matilda could. And she _could_. She could move things with her mind! When she'd told her parents the next morning, yawning with exhaustion, Emma and Daniel glances at one another and patted her on the head.

 _I love your imagination_ , her mother had said fondly.

Concentrating, Hermione squinted her eyes at the cherry bookcase. _Move_ , she chanted in her head. _Move, move, move_.

A magazine rose into the air and flew off its shelf, hovering in the air. _Oliver Twist_ came out like someone was pulling on it, and dropped to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud. Hermione grinned. She was a real, live Matilda!

The bookcase gave a creak and began to tip out from the wall. Books slid out, landing in piles. Some were opened facedown and being smushed under more books. Hermione's shoulders tensed and she peeked at the office doors. Loud noises were coming from both. _Maybe they weren't able to hear her_ , she thought hopefully. _Maybe I can fix this_.

Suddenly, the bookcase lost the war with gravity and toppled forward. Hermione gave a little shriek and thrust her small hands out in front of her. Just as suddenly, it stopped. She looked up and her mouth made an O. It had stopped, and was now hovering, mere inches from her head. Experimentally, she pushed her hands away from her body, and the bookcase slowly tilted backward until it stood against the wall the way it had been. Hermione turned a fierce gaze at the fallen books, and one by one they picked themselves up from the floor and flew back into the shelves.

Only seconds after the last book slid into place, her mother's door opened and she stepped out, followed by a woman. "Hello, darling," Emma greeted Hermione, waving goodbye to her patient. "Have you been entertaining yourself?"

Hermione glanced at the bookcase, innocently standing there as though it hadn't nearly crushed her a few minutes prior. "Yes, Mum," she said. "It's been quite an adventure."

* * *

 _word count: 530_


	7. chapter seven

**short and sweet: chapter seven**

 **•**

 **beauty goes deeper than the surface**

* * *

Her first time since the war ended. Her first time since Bellatrix Lestrange carved 'Mudblood' into her arm.

Her first time with battle scars adorning her body.

Her first time with Severus.

•

It wasn't that she was _ashamed_ of her scars. They were mementos of a dark time, but they also served as a reminder that she had survived. They had won in the end — they had lost many, but they had also won much.

Now, she wished she could conquer her insecurity the way they had conquered the other side.

•

The event started off fine. They were on her couch, still very vertical, but it was already getting heated and she worried it would turn horizontal far too soon.

"Severus," she whispered, her throat dry. "Slow down."

Her — not boyfriend, as he complained he was far too old to be called that — suitor stopped nibbling the delicate, sensitive skin of her neck. "What's wrong?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed. "Did I hurt you?"

His worry was adorable, Hermione thought as she pressed her thumb to the crease between his eyes and smoothed it out. "I didn't say stop, Severus. You didn't hurt me; I just would prefer to go a little slower."

He nodded and lowered his mouth back to her neck, sucking gently and leaving a little red mark. She tipped her head back and shut her eyes, losing herself to the pleasurable sensation.

Severus, always an attentive lover, knew what Hermione's hesitation was about. He pulled her sleeve up, and lifted her scarred arm to his lips. He traced the 'Mudblood' scar with his tongue, then pressed tiny kisses up and down her arm.

When he looked back up at her, he found her chocolate brown eyes fixed on his.

"You're beautiful," he told her, with a rare show of fierceness tinging his slightly husky voice.

Just those two words set Hermione off, and tears sprang to her eyes. Severus crawled up the bed and settled next to her, and pulled her against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair until she fell asleep.


	8. chapter eight

**short and sweet: chapter eight**

* * *

"Marry me, Theo." Blaise clasped his friend's hand within his and drew a ring from his pocket. His dark eyes met Theo's.

Theo drew his hand away. "Blaise..."

"Marry me." Blaise's voice was panicked and pleading. "Theo, please."

"I — I can't. Blaise, you'll regret this. You don't love me."

"I do!"

Shaking his head, Theo looked down at his friend, kneeling on the floor, and said quietly, "You love her, Blaise. Not me. Go to her. Put this ring on her finger, not mine. You deserve better than this — you don't deserve a husband who is not the woman you love. I can't give you what you want, what you need."

Blaise held onto Theo's hand even tighter. "I don't want her," he said. "Please, Theo. Please."

Theo drew his hand away. "I'm sorry," he said, voice almost inaudible. "I'm not who you want." He turned away, trying to ignore Blaise's shaky breathing and sniffs behind him, and began the slow walk to the door. He spoke again in a whisper when he reached the door and opened it, barely moving his lips: "But you're who I want."

Blaise did not hear him.

The door clicked shut after him.


End file.
